Here I was dreaming of spring and winter had still more to say. We're homebound, eight inches of snow (so far) making our road and driveway unnavigable. School work is done in the spaces between sledding, changing clothes and warming up with hot drinks, and not done very attentively, at that. That's okay; there aren't many days when even dad has to stay home and everyone is around the house chatting and watching out the window and checking weather reports and making scones and exclaiming about all the birds at the feeders.
I woke early and went out to take photos as the sun was coming up. Snow is rare enough here that the magic still glimmers. I walked into the woods and all our trees looked unfamiliar, elegant and poised in their white satin dresses. I watched the ground for animal tracks as I went, but everything was smoothed and softened, no evidence of life having passed by in any direction. Perhaps the raccoons and the possoms, the little doe who eats our apples, or the young buck we've seen bounding across the field next door, are all awe-struck too, tucked into their wooded homes, staring out at this wonder with hushed and grateful hearts.
"I had this advantage...over those who were obliged to look abroad for amusement, to society and the theatre, that my life itself was become my amusement and never ceased to be novel." ~ Thoreau